


The Heart of the Rainforest

by Fight_Surrender



Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jungle, Baz is a reporter, Indiana Jones References, Inspired by Indiana Jones, M/M, Simon is the grumpy archaeologist, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_Surrender/pseuds/Fight_Surrender
Summary: Simon Snow is the grizzled, somewhat irritable archaeologist. Baz pitch is the plucky young reporter in search of a story, who also thinks the grumpy archaeologist is super hot. Jungle adventures ensue, can Baz capture Simon's heart without getting killed in the process?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950466
Comments: 17
Kudos: 52
Collections: Simon saves Baz, Whumptober 2020





	1. Day 4: Running Out of Time- Buried Alive, Collapsed Building

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing these prompts a couple weeks before October and got carried away on a few of them. Future prompts will likely be shorter fics as I catch up and have less time to write. This one got away from me a bit and encompasses multiple Whumptober prompts. I've decided to break this up into (Parts? Chapters?) based on the prompts. So far this story involves Prompts 4-7, so I guess it will publish in four parts. I'm totally winging it here. All of these stories may be added to in the future, so if you're into them, let me know. 
> 
> Today's prompt is: No4 Running out of Time- Collapsed building, buried alive (I'm very loosely following the prompts on these)
> 
> Oh and part of my personal challenge for this fic was to write it in third person, present tense, which was hard. Pardon my errors.

“Indiana Snow. Why do they call you that? You’re not even from America.”

Baz swipes another vine from his face. Why is Snow the one with the machete? He deserves a machete too. Anyone dropped in this god-forsaken, obscenely verdant corner of the world deserves at least a machete and a metric tonne of insect repellent.

“What?” Snow pauses his forward assault on the jungle to sneer at Baz. He’s a cranky git, this one.

“Your nickname, Indiana Snow. My notes say you’re from Lancashire.”

“The name is Simon. I reckon that Indiana rubbish is something that sensationalist rag you call a magazine came up with. Watch your step.” He resumes hacking at the foliage.

Baz yelps as he narrowly avoids stepping on a snake the size of a tree trunk.

“National Geologic is not a sensationalist rag, we are reputable scientific literature.”

“That tried to name me after a pop culture archeologist who is more looter than scholar.”

Baz finds himself pressed against Snow’s back as he stops short. Snow holds his hand up for silence. Baz may or may not linger there, just for a second, inhaling Simon’s scent. A heady mix of sweat, tobacco, and the cinnamon sticks he adds to his whiskey in the evening and his coffee in the morning.

“What is it?” Baz whispers.

“Jaguar,” Hisses Simon, “Now please shut the fuck up.”

Baz relaxes. “Jaguars are notoriously shy. They don’t attack people. It’s fine.”

Snow rounds on Baz. Blue eyes livid. “Not this one. He’s developed a taste for humans on account of a bad tooth. Apparently, we are soft and easy to kill. Now shut it or I’ll feed you to him myself.”

That shuts Baz up.

Simon pulls an old revolver from a holster at his hip that Baz hadn’t noticed. Apparently too focused on Snow’s perfect arse in his tan trousers. These are not appropriate Jungle thoughts. He concentrates on jaguars and not getting killed. Baz flinches as Simon fires the revolver into the air, causing an explosion of shuffling in the undergrowth just ahead. Baz just makes out black spots on an orange coat fleeing into the forest.

“Why didn’t you just kill it?” Baz asks.

Snow returns the gun to the holster. “Jaguars are sacred to the tribespeople of the area. They are actually flying in a veterinary dentist to do a root canal.”

“That’s insane. How does a remote Amazon jungle tribe afford to fly in a veterinarian?”

“He’s doing it pro bono.”

“And then what?” Baz wonders, “The cat just eats people with more efficiency?”

“It’s not my job to question their culture, just to document it.”

The twilight murk of the forest world opens to a bright clearing of vine-covered mounds, crumbling stone buildings and effigies. Baz blinks at the change in illumination. “Is this it?”

“Think so,” Simon grins with childlike enthusiasm, “The lost village of Caracol.”

“Can it really be lost when a freak storm knocked over some trees, making it visible by helicopter? I mean, it’s been here the whole time.” Baz strides up to a stone structure, brushing away some accumulated debris.

“Fucks sake,” Snow’s knuckles whiten on Baz’s wrist. “This is a pristine archeological site, Basilton. Show some respect.”

“Sorry.” Baz looks into Simon’s blue, blue eyes. Jewels set off from the tan skin and grime of weeks spent outdoors. “Baz is fine.”

Simon drops Baz’s wrist and leans into his space. “Don’t touch anything _Baz_.” He’s so close. “The ancient Akeleón’s are famous for their mastery in setting traps.”

Baz lowers his brows, “Like booby traps?”

“Yeah,” Snow growls, “Pitfalls, poison darts, things that go bump in the night.”

This proximity to the wildly attractive, tantalizingly irritable archaeologist proved somewhat overwhelming so Baz takes a step back. As soon as his weight settles, the ground underneath gives way and before he can so much as gasp, he falls.

Baz finds himself in a cavern, maybe twelve feet below the surface. A quick assessment reveals not much damage aside from a few bruises and his pride. Lucky.

Simon peers down at him. “Did I not tell you not to touch anything?”

“Double negative,” Baz replies.

“What?” Simon grimaces.

“Sentences with double negatives are not grammatically corr—you know what, never mind. Could you help me out of here please?”

“I think you’re better off in the hole. I’m going to assess the site.” Simon’s face disappears from above.

“The fuck you are. I can’t see a thing down here.” A thud startles Baz as an object lands next to him. He picks up the torch. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t just leave me here.”

“Don’t you worry your little heart,” The soft thud of Simon’s footfalls walking away, “I’ll be back before dark.”

“And then what, you imbecile? How do I get out of here?” Baz shouts.

 _To Be Continued_ :) 


	2. Days 5 & 6: Rescue and "get it out"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz got himself stuck in an ancient Amazonian tribe's trap. Simon reluctantly rescues him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers two prompts: Day 5's theme is "Where do you think you're going- Rescue" Day 6 is "Please- get it out." 
> 
> Also, if I'm gonna split hairs, this chapter also has a mention of the Day 4 prompt "buried alive."

Baz has become intimately aware of his surroundings in the cavern. It’s mostly empty, save for a scattering of bones (he chooses to not think about who or what they belonged to) and a stone pedestal. Atop the pedestal is a dusty golden statue, concerningly reminiscent of the one in the movie previously discussed with the grumpy archeologist. He wants to touch it, but he’s seen Raiders of the Lost Ark enough times to know better than to bring this cavern crashing down on top of him. The scene with the guys face melting off resulted in a slew of pre-adolescent nightmares (Thanks Fiona!) and frankly, it still freaks him out.

The sky above his head has started the process of transforming into the wild riot of orange and gold that is sunset in South America. “Simon Snow!” He shouts. He really doesn’t want to play this card, but he is getting desperate. He had always planned to make a beautiful corpse, and that will definitely not happen buried alive in the middle of the rainforest. He inhales, “Do you know who my parents are?”

Simon’s head blocks out what little light is coming in. “Of course I know who your parents are, you posh wanker. Why do ya think I left you in the pit? Can’t have Malcolm and Natasha’s precious son get accidentally sliced in half by an Akeleón trap can I?”

“Right, so, you can’t just leave me here to die. There will be a reward.”

“Mate, you talk like I kidnapped you and forced you to come with me. You begged me to bring you on this grand adventure for your stupid magazine.”

“Well, yes, but. Look, help me get out of this fucking hole.”

There is a scramble above, and the light disappears. Before Baz can cry out, Simon lands beside him in a crouch. (It’s far more attractive than it has a right to be.) “So what have we got down here?” Simon straightens, dusting himself off.

“Are you insane? What the fuck?” Clearly panicked, “Do you have a death wish? Your dossier said nothing about this.”

“Cool your jets rich boy,” Snow tugs on a length of cord, dangling behind him from above. “Always prepared.”

“I’m not rich,” Baz grumbles.

“What?”

“I’m not rich, my parents are. Pitches make their own way.”

“Helluva safety net.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You’re not exactly a street urchin yourself you know.”

“My family is not up for discussion.” Snow picks up the torch and quickly trains the beam on the effigy on the pedestal. “Well lookie here.” He keeps a safe distance, squatting as he takes notes in a worn Moleskine.

“Look, if this is the part where you replace the statue with a bag of sand, releasing poison darts and a giant boulder to crush us, I’m super not interested.”

Simon rounds on Baz, in his space again. Is he one of those people with no concept of personal space? A close-talker? “What exactly is it you think I do, Pitch? Because it is not the pop culture rendition of swashbuckling rogue, pinching priceless artefacts and selling them to the highest bidder. My job is to secure the site, study it’s secrets, catalogue and protect the materials found within. This is an academic pursuit to gain a deeper understanding of our past and of humanity as a whole.”

Baz has never felt so turned on in his life. “Um—I’m sorry?”

“Whatever,” Snow tugs on the rope. “Hope that writing career has given you some semblance of upper body strength.”

“I work out.”

“Good,” Simon growls as he shimmies sexily up the rope.

Baz takes an experimental tug on the line, looking for a foothold to ease his climb. He finds an irregularity in the sheer wall of the cavern and he places his boot into it to push off.

“Fuck!” Baz shouts as a faint pop is followed by a sharp pain in his right shoulder. He drops back into the cavern.

“You’re killing me, Baz. I told you not to touch anything.” Simon is once again shouting from above.

“I didn’t,” Baz clutches the shaft of the dart protruding from his arm. He feels a bit spinny. He’s hoping it’s just stress and not that he’s dying. “These aren’t poison darts are they?”

“Probably,” Simon chirps as he slides back down the rope. “You’ve probably got about enough time to smoke a final cigarette before you die.”

“I don’t smoke,” Baz snarls, definitely light headed.

“Shame,” Simon says, “Now hold on so I can haul your sorry arse out of here before you keel over and smell up the place.”

“Is there an antidote?” Baz wraps his arms around Simon’s neck. Simon’s biceps are positively a crime as he strains to pull them both up the rope.

“Nah. So, what will it be? Shallow grave, or just leave you on the forest floor for nature to take its course?”

Baz sits on the ground and ponders his mortality. His life hasn’t been particularly spectacular. He's a disappointment to his parents. Mordelia is the successful one, carrying the family legacy. Baz wanted something a little more exiting, more _him_. Seems fitting that his attempt at rugged individualism will leave him dead in the middle of the jungle. He supposes his final vision being Simon Snow’s pecs bulging through the thin cotton of his shirt isn’t the worst way to go. Regardless, there's always the chance Simon would hold him as he faded away. He should ask. Baz thinks he might be a bit depressed. 

He must look as dejected as he feels, because Simon squats in front of him, grimacing. “I think you’re in luck,” he says, tilting Baz’s chin up to look into his eyes. Baz can’t help but flush. “The toxin degrades over time, and becomes more hallucinogenic than fatal. Those darts are well old.”

“The dart.” Baz slurs, colors do seem a bit brighter than normal. He thinks he can feel sounds.

“Yeah?”

“Will you get it out please?”

“Oh sure,” Simon grabs the dart by the base and pulls, “Wanna keep it? Souvenir?

The bright stab of pain barely registers. Baz blinks at Simon, “you’re so pretty,” He places a hand on Simon’s cheek, brushes his thumb across his lips.

Simon blinks and then it's his turn to flush. A brilliant, ruddy thing.

It’s the last thing Baz sees before he passes out cold.


	3. Day 7: I've Got You- Support, Enemy to Caretaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz was shot by a poison dart. Simon takes care of him, in his grumpy yet sort of sweet way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I should have written/published this yesterday, but life and work got in the way. This was mostly written on the fly and is totally unbeta'd as I'm trying to catch up to the Whumptober prompt list. Everything will be unbeta'd from here out. If/when I continue this fic, I'll probably come back and polish this. 
> 
> I googled "Amazon fruit" and discovered the "Ice cream bean fruit," I don't know if the seeds are poisonous, but it worked for the story, so that's artistic license for ya.

Baz wakes under the shelter of a large tree. There is a fire crackling and the jungle is a cacophony of unearthly noises. It’s like all the creatures hold their breath in the day in order to riot at night.

Simon is settled next to him, one leg bent, a book propped on his knee. There is a well-worn flask at his side. “Good morning sunshine,” he murmurs, flipping the page.

Baz sits up, wipes his face. “How long was I out?”

“Couple hours. Don’t stand up.” He flips another page.

Baz stands up and promptly faints again.

It’s full dark the next time he wakes. The jungle has lapsed into quiet. The creatures gave up on their evening quest to hunt and breed. 

There is an arm around his waist. Hot breath on his neck. Seeing as his only companion on this God-forsaken trip is Simon, he can only surmise that it's his arms in which he is sleeping right now. Long cool fingers interlace with warm stubby ones. Baz snuggles into the solid presence at his back and falls asleep once again. 

The sun streams into Baz’s eyes the next time he blinks them open. He rolls over and ponders his situation. Alive. Alone. He listens for footsteps, activity, anything. He’s cold, damp. Last night’s warm intimacy, was it a dream? His shoulder aches. “Simon?” He calls out tentatively. He sounds a little more petulant than he’d like. 

The air is humid, thick. Tangible. His thoughts wander to a jaguar with a toothache and a taste for human flesh. He glances at the wound on his shoulder, a perfect circle, crimson at the edges, like a cigarette burn. A portal of entry for all manner of organisms-- flesh eating bacteria, gangrene, tetanus. Messy, painful death in the middle of nowhere, all because he was sick of the grey monotony and narrow skies of London. 

Footsteps from behind. “Well look who’s up,” a thud, and a pile of what look like giant green beans appears at his side. “Did you get your beauty sleep?”

“What the hell are those?” Given the ubiquitous nature of danger in this place. Baz hesitates to touch the verdant pods. They could be venomous, alive, magical-- anything is possible. 

“They’re pacay,” Simon says quietly, settling on the ground next to Baz. “Ice cream bean fruit. Don’t eat the beans, they will kill ya, but the flesh is actually quite nice.”

Baz sighs. “Everything in this place wants to kill me,” he picks up a pod, roughly the size of a banana. He breaks it open, inside the flesh is fluffy and white, like cotton candy nestled around black beans. He pulls out one of the seeds and flicks it at Simon, popping him on the chin. “Thanks.”

Simon lowers his brows, rubs his chin. It’s covered in thick bronze stubble. He flicks a bean of his own at Baz, hitting just to the right of his aquiline nose. “For what?” 

Baz tries to stifle the grin pulling at his lips. He aims a bean at Simon’s laser cut jaw. It hits just above his ear. “For taking care of me.” 

“It was nothing,” Simon is stifling a smile of his own. He ducks as a small projectile flies past his eye. He grabs Baz’s wrist before he can launch another bean. 

A rush of heat as all of Baz’s rushes to the spot where Snow’s large, callused hand encircles his wrist. He’s so close. Baz blinks, shifts his eyes to Simon’s. Breathing is superfluous. “Are you going to behave so I can do my job without having to come to your rescue?” 

Baz could kiss him. There is a scar on his lip. _Focus on the eyes, Baz_ . So very blue. “I’m not--a damsel in distress, Snow.” He knows it’s a lie, figuratively speaking. A quick mental image of Simon carrying him, bridal style, away from a collapsing building overrun by cannibals. _For heaven’s sake, Baz, pull yourself together._ Baz has always had a very rich and textured imagination. 

“Coulda fooled me,” Simon says, a little flustered. He releases his warm grip on Simon’s wrist. His respiratory rate just a tad elevated. “Look. You’re here for another forty-eight hours. Then you get to go back to the land of lattes and multivitamin, gluten free eye cream. Try not to get yourself killed.” 

Baz opens his mouth. Closes it. Eye cream? Forty-eight hours? Is he still hallucinating? His mind stops to spin on the number. Forty-eight hours. Two days, then he will never see this infuriating, fascinating, belligerent, beguiling, man again. He’s not sure he can live with that. 

“I’ll try,” Baz says around the lump that has inexplicably formed in his throat. 

_Forty eight hours_. 


	4. Day 16: Shoot the Hostage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz manages to get himself kidnapped by Amazonian tribesmen while on assignment for a magazine article. 
> 
> The rules of the jungle are fickle and strange. Simon negotiates for Baz's rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm pretty sure this plot makes no sense, but I had to fill the prompt and I'm wildly behind on these. If I had time, I could probably develop this into a much better story, but my anxiety is up and I needed some serotonin so I went ahead and made them kiss. This whole fic is a disaster. 
> 
> I know Simon is a bit out of character in this fic, I'm kinda channeling the Fangirl Simon who is canonically grumpy. I did catch one instance of me accidentally labeling his dialogue as "Baz," though. This is unbeta'd so there may be others.
> 
> Oh & The official prompt is : A Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day- Shoot the Hostage

Baz wakes in his flat. He must have forgotten to close the blinds last night. Dust motes waltz in the morning sun. There is an arm around his waist, a warmth at his back. Soft familiar snores belie the identity of his bedmate. Baz rolls over to kiss Simon awake. One for each freckle.

A burst of pain in the area of his kidneys jolts him awake. His shoulders ache as he realizes his hands are tied behind his back. Cords biting into his wrists. He tries to shout around the gag in his mouth. Another kick to his ribs shuts him up. His head throbs.

The ground beneath him is soft. Smells of peat. An inhumanly large centipede trundles uncomfortably close to his face. What happened? _Where the fuck is Simon_?

There are three men standing over him. They are mostly naked. Clad in an array of bright beads and brilliant feathers. Bodies painted with heavy stripes and sigils that make them look both festive and dangerous. They are murmuring quietly to each other. Baz ponders his options. How to escape from angry tribesmen was not covered in his “Welcome to the Amazon" pamphlet.

Baz hears heavy footsteps in the brush. His captors, raise their bows and spears. Simon Snow emerges from the curtain of vines like a figment of imagination. The tribesmen relax their stances. Snow strides over and claps the largest of them on the back. They huddle together. Simon looms over them like the tallest tree in the forest. Occasionally they laugh and glance at Baz. He notices that laughter sounds the same in any language. The rest is a toss-up, they could be discussing the weather, or what to do with his body. Are cannibals still a thing?

Baz debates straining at his bonds in abject rage versus keeping quiet in the hopes they forget he’s there. He realizes that’s ludicrous, so he growls and squirms impotently. Snow looks over the head of the men and catches Baz’s eye. The look Snow gives him is something along the lines of “shut the fuck up.” There’s a widening if his eyes that adds “ _please_.”

The men resume their negotiations. The centipede ventures onto Baz’s neck. Baz closes his eyes and tries to control his breathing. Is this the “one bite will kill a man,” type of centipede or the “sting hurts like hell,” kind? He’d rather not find out either way. He closes his eyes and wills the insect off into the forest to cavort with his many-legged family. Faint pricks on the back of his neck and a soft rustle indicate the bug has moved on. He breathes again.

A boot at his shoulder rolls him onto his back. Baz looks up into the twilight murk of the rainforest to see Simon Snow and his dimple peering down at him. “These fine fellows have kindly requested that I shoot you, as an offering to their gods. Only then will I have access to the site and its treasures.” He pulls out his revolver. Baz squirms with all his might in abject betrayal. “You know how it is mate, sacrifices must be made.”

He puts the gun to Baz’s temple.

Baz isn’t going down without a fight. He curves his body in an attempt to kick the gun out of Simon’s traitorous hands. Snow chuckles and easily dodges Baz’s fumbling attack. “So you’ve got some fight in ya after all.” He keeps the gun trained on Baz. 

The men say something, their language musical and abrupt. Simon nods. Resumes his negotiations.

“How about, instead of your life, you give up your shirt and your watch.”

For a moment, Baz weighs his choice. While not exactly jungle wear, it is his favorite shirt. White with blue and purple flowers and fat striped bumblebees. The watch was a graduation gift from his father, a Rolex Milgauss. Pretty, but he can live without it. The shirt though, his mum bought it for him, just before her diagnosis. He doesn’t want to think about it. He does it anyway. _Early onset Alzheimer’s_. He squirms again.

“Cool it,” Simon mutters in his ear as he leans in to untie Baz’s hands. He doesn’t release the gag. “Your parents can’t buy you another watch if you’re dead.” Snow’s breath is hot against his skin. Is it Baz’s imagination or did Simon linger, just a beat, there in the crook of his neck. He stops thinking about his mum.

Baz’s feet are still bound as he struggles to his knees. His fingers sting as feeling returns. Deep red grooves cross his wrists.

Simon’s pistol points at his chest. “Come on now, don’t keep these fine gentlemen waiting.” The tribesmen eye the gun warily. The look they give Baz is a bit—hungrier. He has no idea what the fuck is going on.

Baz tries clumsily to unbutton his shirt. Fingers still numb from the restraints. Simon holsters the gun and carefully unfastens each button. Slips the shirt off of Baz’s shoulders. Their eyes meet for a hairsbreadth. Simon looks away, he unclasps Baz’s watch, wraps it in the shirt and tosses it at the men’s feet.

The tall one, with the most elaborate head dress picks up the bundle. He smiles as he snaps on the watch. Dons the shirt, his associates nod approvingly. The man tips his head sharply at Simon. The bargain is made. Then all three figures fade into the murk of the jungle.

Simon stalks over, pulling a knife from his pocket. He cuts Baz’s legs free and hesitates at the gag. “I might leave this on.”

Baz, having recovered feeling to his hands, pulls the gag off himself. “What the fuck was that?”

“I just bought your life for he low, low price of a Rolex and a spectacularly gay shirt.”

“A shirt can’t be gay, Snow.” The absence of mortal peril leaves Baz feeling a bit wild and untethered. Maybe a little manic. 

“Well, it can certainly stick out like a sore thumb, and get you kidnapped by natives while traipsing around the rainforest.”

“I wasn’t traipsing,” Baz growls. 

“I told you to stay at the camp. You only have to stay alive another twenty-four hours. Why is this so difficult for you?” Something clouds Simon’s features. frustration? Fear? Something else?

“You put a gun to my head.”

“To keep you alive.”

“That doesn’t make sense” Baz says, adrenaline clouding his thoughts. _He could have died_. “None of this makes any sense.”

“This isn’t a place where things make sense, Baz. It’s kill or be killed. You seem to constantly err on the side of the latter.”

“What are we doing here?” Baz asks. Standing up.

“What do you mean?” For once, Simon sounds a little uncertain.

“This. Us. What are we doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Baz. Did you get darted again?” Simon leans against a tree, hands in his pockets, regarding Baz.

“I slept in your arms”

“Fitfully. You were hallucinating.” A macaw flies overhead, a brilliant flash of red. Simon watches its flight.

“Whenever I need you, you’re there.”

“It’s my job to keep you safe,” Simon says evenly. Gaze leveled on Baz.

Baz steps into Simon’s space. “There’s chemistry here, Simon. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel it.”

Simon sets his jaw. His eyes are ice blue. “Baz Pitch,” he says through gritted teeth, “I am absolutely not attracted to you.”

“Oh,” says Baz, deflating. _At least he took his shot_. He takes a step back.

Before he can retreat, Simon Snow’s hand is at his neck. The kiss is hot and wild. It takes a moment for Baz’s brain to engage, but when it does, his hands are in Simon’s hair. Around his back. Up and down the planes of his chest.

Simon’s hands follow suit, minus the hindrance of a shirt. Baz forgets to be embarrassed about the fact that he’s half naked in the middle of the jungle. He’d like to be more naked.

“I knew it, you fucking liar.” Baz murmurs into the stripe he’s licked up Simon’s neck.

“Shut up. This is a deplorable idea,” Simon growls as he pushes Baz up against a tree. Pressing the length of their bodies together.

Baz turns his head to the side, redirecting Simon’s attention to his throat. “Just so you know, this isn’t a fling. I don’t do flings.”

Simon, working his way across Baz’s collarbone responds, “Do I look like someone who flings?”

“There will be logistics,” Baz gasps

“So many logistics,” Simon agrees before shutting him up with another searing kiss.

“Is this even safe?” Says Baz, when he gets the chance. “We’re in the middle of the jungle. Where did those guys go?”

Simon pulls back, looks around. Looks back at Baz. “Tent.”

“What?” Asks Baz, he needs Simon’s mouth back on him. Now.

“Tent. Come on then.” Simon scoops Baz up and slings him over his shoulder. It shouldn’t be possible, Baz has a good three inches on him.

Baz feels he should probably be offended, but he’s way too turned on to care.

“Yes. Tent. Tally-ho my good man,” Baz says to Simon’s back.

“Oh my god, shut up,” Simon laughs as he picks his way through the forest.


End file.
